Tourniquet
by devilberry
Summary: A tourniquet is a device that restricts bloodflow.  Late giftfic for Angael. Somewhat fluffy.


_For my lovely, lovely, lovely little Zozy x3_

_My apologies for being so disgustingly late! And for this fic being so disgustingly short! And disgustingly...disgusting. You deserve so much more, darling, you are such a little sweetheart._

_Me+fluff(...yeah, this is supposed to be fluff)=epic fail. But I tried, dear, I did try!_

_Happy obscenely belated birthday!_

_(And I **hate** writing dialouge, so I forced myself to put as much as possible of it in here. Concrit on that area particularly would make me beyond happy.)

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"You're bleeding_."_ He says.

And it's true. There's a crack in the near flawless (_so close to perfect but so mutilated and abused…) _caramel skin. It's red and angry and spitting out blood. It swirls and twirls and dances across the bronze flesh like a mother fucking ballerina.

"Yes, I'm bleeding." He bites. Tries not to sound too harsh, but doesn't try hard enough. Never tries hard enough around this white-haired demon; can never resist.

It's like Bakura is the exact antithesis of everything we're taught was right as tiny boys and girls. (_Though Malik's childhood wasn't anywhere near conventional…poisonous snakes and abuse and some 3,000 year old dead guy and this hothothot burning spear that still haunts his sweet little blonde head.)_ If Mommy and Daddy say jump, Bakura says fall. Morality wants you to stop? He'll curl his whitepale lips into a smirk and spit into your ear.

_Go._

"You really ought to do something about that, I think," And by the Gods, this sick fuck is always smiling. "It looks rather nasty. Get into a fight, darling?"

"More or less," Malik sighs. He tears at his already obscene purple shirt, cutting it shorter. He uses a sad combination of teeth and arm-that-hasn't-been-stabbed to create himself a bandage of sorts. "There were things that had to be done, and I had to be the one to do them."

"Oh, woe is you," The thief snorts, releasing a white puff of breathe into the early winter air. Fucking 50 degrees outside and Malik's half naked. He smiles, then frowns. "Oi, if you get any blood on my host's white pants, I will _destroy _you."

"If you're so concerned about your fucking _pants_ you can just leave me alone." Blowing blonde wisps of hair from his lavender eyes, Malik focuses on the crimson pooling on his skin.

"I'd rather stay, thank you," White fingers dive into the pockets of skintight pants, locking around a cardboard carton. Thin digits wrap around a poison-filled stick, shoving the object into his mouth. He produces a lighter to it, and ignites. The red glow enveloping it's pale tip and warming the thief down to his just-as-posionous black soul. The cigarette is elegantly removed from his cheek, and devilish lips curl, blowing smoke a little bit too purposely in the blonde's direction. "If you die on me, I'd be down a partner in crime."

"I thought you liked working alone."

"Oh, that I do," Fangs poking out of his mouth as he speaks, fingers forever attached to the white stick in his grasp. "But having a partner means having twice as many enemies," And a free pallid hand trails down to his back pocket, fingering the silver handle of his knife. Red eyes locking onto Malik, the blonde gets the hint. Oh, how this thief loves his thrill of the kill. "Which brings me to the question, why'd you even do this yourself? You've always been a more behind-the-scenes sort of villainous mastermind."

Malik shrugs, ignoring the twin glowing pools locked onto him, trying to keep the shiver from running down his spine, and says nothing. Fumbling with the blood-soaked purple fabric, he drops his gaze to the concrete below him.

"Give me that," The cigarette finds it's death underneath Bakura's (_Ryou's?) _sneaker as white claws snatch for the makeshift bandage. "Idiot. I could've done whatever it was for you. Unlike some of us, I can hold my own in a fight." And he doesn't feel the need to mention his twenty years living in the desert, and then the 3,000 in a tin can that have molded him so harshly.

"Oh?" Malik smirks, wincing as Bakura wraps his arm tight like a tourniquet. "Is that concern I hear, Spirit?"

A low hiss is the only answer he receives as the bandage winds itself that much closer to Malik's flesh. Painfully so. And for once, Malik is the sick fuck who gets to smile. Considering the beast has had 3,000 years to master the art of human emotions and what not to do with them, the Egyptian teen can read his monstrous crimson irises like an open book.

And the thief can deny it all he wants, but he is so very wrapped around Malik's tan finger. Just the same way that Malik is wrapped up in his selfish little plots.

"Are you going to sit there, or are you going to kiss me, you fucking demon?" And a tan back is slammed against a dirty building, teeth clashing, and an only semi-tended to wound leeks and spits blood onto the both of them as they embrace.

Tighter and tighter. Like a tourniquet.


End file.
